


Push and Pull

by blackdragonsmaw



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackdragonsmaw/pseuds/blackdragonsmaw
Summary: Siegfried is used to waving aside any semblance of worry with a nonchalant smile and an "I'm fine".Percival is used to scowling and leaving him be.Until one day, he doesn't.





	Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is mostly an exploratory brand of fic, I'm dipping my toes into how I wanna write siegpercy's dynamic bc I'm very infatuated w them and plan to write them a little more.
> 
> It's not much and I'm not very experienced with fic (I'm mostly a roleplayer and eng is not my native tongue dfgfgd), but it's written with a lot of love. Hope it's enjoyable!

“I said I’m fine.”

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

Percival’s voice is stern, but there’s no real bite to it.

It’s late, but light still seeps into the bedroom from behind his form. He stands by the doorframe, arms crossed and brows furrowed in exasperation.

It’s been a long day, and everyone who’s still awake on the Grandcypher has retired to the galleys by now. Tired of the fight; longing for comfort, warm food and lively conversation.

Normally they’d all go together, but today Siegfried had excused himself with a tired attempt at smiling. Lancelot and Vane had given him a distraught look and stared at each other in worry for a moment, but quickly yielded when he insisted that _ it’s fine, really, I just need to catch up on some sleep _.

_ I’m fine. _Heaven knows how Percival has come to despise that phrase. Every time he hears it he gets Siegfried flashbacks. The man repeats it so often and so casually (Percival was not there the one time he’d uttered those words upon waking from an extended coma caused by wounds that put him through mortal peril, but Vane had narrated the story to him and, sure enough, it sounded just like Siegfried). At this point, not even the mongrel boy is dumb enough to buy it —he doesn’t think even Siegfried himself does. It’s either an evasive or self delusion. Maybe both.

Siegfried was never much of a social butterfly, but the change Percival has seen in him over the past months is undeniable. While still quite the loner, he’s allowed himself the time and the space to connect with others and bask in the presence of his crewmates, old and new friends alike. And even on the nights where he’d rather have a quiet time, he’ll normally check on little Sara and Danua, at the very least (the glimmer in his eyes is unrivalled then, and Percival has to wonder why the skies chose not to grant this man the mercy of a quiet family life).

Wanting to be alone is one thing. Another, entirely, is the sheer exhaustion and dread he’s noticed creeping up Siegfried’s visage.

And so, Percival has tailed him to his bedroom. Piercing crimson awaits not-so-patiently by the doorframe.

Warm candlelight paints the room in orange and yellow, a stark contrast to the blue shadows of midnight. The starry sky continues to move past round windows, clear of clouds, a minuscule display of its limitless expanse. And there they stand, suspended in the middle.

A dusty bedroom in an airship suspended in mid flight; as well as this damned tug-of-war they’ve been playing for far too many years. Suspended in their own emotional entanglement.

Siegfried exhales a soft laugh in response, and it’s the same nonchalant, detached gesture Percival has witnessed a billion times. Devoid of light or meaning.

Despite the tension, they’re both well used to this push and pull. Over the years, Percival has learned it best to settle for not knocking on certain doors, for the sake of peace. Siegfried is a very dear friend, after all.

Both damaged and distant each in their own ways, they _ have _developed some kind of companionship. Siegfried knows Percival doesn’t mean to be hurtful. Percival knows Siegfried knows exactly why he’s said what he’s said.

And oh, doesn’t he.

It’s the shadows under Siegfried’s eyes. It’s the way he keeps turning down a cold beer and a meal with everyone after a hard day’s work. It’s the way he stares down and not ahead, the pauses in his speech, the signature welcoming smiles he’s been failing to muster up (like the light in his eyes has been eclipsed, and Percival has found himself missing the sunlight).

And most of all, it’s the way Siegfried will always say _ it’s fine, I’m fine, sorry for stirring up worry _.

It’s not easy for Siegfried to lean on anyone’s shoulder; Percival knows. He wouldn’t say he _ understands _ the black knight’s inner workings, but as a former comrade in arms, second in command and close friend (for the sake of brevity), he’s seen enough of this man to accept that there’s trauma and there’s weight behind his distance. Especially now that he’s returned from exile.

He knows it well. That Siegfried’s armor goes way deeper than black tinted metal or a layer of chain-mail. Deeper, even, than his noncommittal smiles. Deeper yet, through marble floors that once crumbled beneath his feet and embracing arms that were burned to a crisp.

Percival knows. That’s why he’s never pushed further than this. And yet, that’s exactly why he absolutely cannot let it go tonight.

At this point, Percival would normally scowl and turn away. Give up on getting one single sincere word out of Siegfried. As much as he can read through golden eyes (which is considerably more than anyone else can say about the Dragonslayer), he’s well acquainted with how secretive the man can get, and how stubborn he’s always been.

This time though, the recoil is different. Crimson eyes don’t recede. They blink and flicker, but they stay fixed on amber. There’s no words, but the gaze is intense enough for Siegfried to tell he’s waiting to hear an answer.

Siegfried’s smile doesn’t go away, but it shifts, ever so slightly. There’s a little hint of pain, mixed in with genuine endearment. His head tilts to the side and, for a moment, the specks of warm light reflecting on worn skin and unkempt hair hold the warmth of the sun once again.

“You’ve always been too soft hearted for your own good, Percival.”

Siegfried’s voice is soft as a prayer. But Percival’s scowl tenses up the slightest bit more, and of course he catches it. The hurt pride, the eyes clenched in indignation.

It’s the same words Aglovale has thrust upon him time and time again, mercilessly, like a crime sentence. But they’re on _ Siegfried _’s lips now: his former commander, Captain of the Black Dragons, the man whose chest would always swell with pride whenever he spoke of Percival’s merciful and noble ways.

Percival knows he’s taking it far too personal: Siegfried doesn’t mean it the way his brother did (he could swear there’s tinges of pride and affection in that needlessly sweet smile). And still, the warmth of fire vaguely prickles at his palms.

“Yes, I’ve heard that before. How is it relevant?”

A pause.

Siegfried shifts in place, gaze lost somewhere far away. He seems like he’s contemplating something, aloof, like Percival wasn’t there. And yet the hint of a smile and the ember of warmth in his eyes, they linger.

“You’re soft enough to worry about me.”

“And I should not?”

Percival, as always, is making his best effort to appear composed and dignified. The contained anger in his voice, however, is unmistakable to Siegfried.

He turns back to face Percival, and there’s nothing there but cinder and smoke.

Strangely enough, the cold burns deeper and harder. It’s in those moments that Percival feels fully aware of the weight of the years. Of things lost and things gone.

Siegfried looks endlessly tired. He’s not sure why, but it’s making his heart ache.

“You should not. I am old. I can carry my own weight.”

(And sure enough, he’s older than Percival, but it almost sounds like he’s talking about something unrelated to age, time or years. Old and worn).

At that, Percival moves away from the doorframe and steps closer to Siegfried, gritting his teeth. The anger stirs, boiling hot, but the reasons behind it are messy in his head. His hands curl into fists to keep it in check, but he knows his voice is going to come out aggressive and demanding.

“Do you hear yourself when you talk? How you think you understand everything? I am old, as well. I came here of my own volition. I won’t break if you lean on me.”

And there he is, ever quick witted and eloquent. Barking right back, but gracefully, making perfect sense. Siegfried stares, bitterly, and he knows for a fraction of a second he faltered and looked at Percival with the eyes a lost child. The one he has long buried within himself; the same child who had learned of bloodshed before he could learn of love.

Percival is, by all means, reprimanding him. And yet right now it sounds like an almost tempting offer. A helping hand. A little bit of warmth. Anything (but no, it’s too terrifying and Siegfried is too far gone).

Still scavenging for a new, more convincing excuse, Siegfried looks away, and it’s a cue for Percival to dive right in for the kill.

“Everyone worries about you, but no one pushes it because it’s easier to believe your lies. And you,” Siegfried has no time to wonder at which point Percival came so close to him, when he’s forcefully grabbed by his shirt, “_ you _, try the hardest to believe your own bullshit. All to convince yourself you can’t rely on anyone. What makes you so different from my brother now?”

The silence filling the room grows thicker. Honey eyes turn dark and cold under narrowed brows.

Siegfried has grown a thick skin, but comparing him to _ Aglovale _ of all people certainly crosses a line. Percival knows. Oh, he _ must _ know.

A strong hand comes to grip at Percival’s wrist.

“Are we striking to hurt, now? You know better than to test my limits."

Percival flinches almost imperceptibly, at the mellow voice turning severe (Siegfried always holds a tight grip on his temper, but he’s learned the hard way to fear the wrath of the mountain).

“You…”, he begins, but his ever so steady baritone is faltering now.

Midnight sky, dying candlelight illuminating a wooden room. So many things have changed, and yet it’s all too similar to the old office back in Feendrache.

Despite the years gone by, the things gained and lost, the cold and the pain. It’s the same voice (strong yet tempered), the same set of autumn colored eyes staring back at him. The same emotion burning hot in his belly, the one he’s always held back (out of fear, out of pride, out of raw anguish and pain at a supposed betrayal).

The only way to halt the overwhelm is to speak his mind. He knows his voice will tremble. At the very least, he can hold Siegfried’s fixed stare.

“You’re burning yourself up, you absolute moron... Can’t you see how much I care about you?”

Reflections of candlelight roll over ruby and gold. Midnight silence spans for an eternity.

The words came out way more emotional than he’d pictured in his head, and he can feel himself flushing. He’s feeling lost again, like he would when he wandered that dark place. Every time some common occurrence reminded him of that cursed night, the betrayal, the loss.

“Percival”, and Siegfried’s voice goes right back to mellow, like it never switched in the first place. It’s not demanding; he’s simply calling out. His grip has loosened.

The name, uttered with such care, eases him back into his senses; a reminder that things have changed. That Siegfried is back, he’s alive, he’s innocent, and he’s right here.

Percival hisses in frustration, suddenly making to hide his face in the crook of Siegfried’s neck. The older man is startled, but doesn’t flinch.

“Sorry”, he mutters, barely clear enough, as his free hand simply clings onto Siegfried’s arm.

“...It’s fine”, Siegfried reassures him, turning it all into a proper embrace in soft, slow motions. “you’re not wrong. And I _ am _ making it difficult”, he admits, and it’s soft as a mother singing her child to sleep.

Percival adjusts to the new position as well, clinging to Siegfried’s form with both of his arms. It’s almost the same as the embrace they shared the first time they were alone together after his return from exile, Siegfried notes.

Percival sighs against his shoulder, and then he’s lifting his head back to look Siegfried in the eye. He’s stern and serious as ever, but Siegfried could swear it’s tenderness he sees swirling amidst deep crimson.

“You’re a stubborn old man,” one of Percival’s hands gently moves to the side of Siegfried’s face, “but you’ve got me, you know.”

Siegfried smiles in that catlike way of his, tender yet knowing, and it’s perhaps a little too much.

“...Us. You’ve got us.”

He laughs again, and this time it does sound like starlight.

“I really don’t see why you put up with me. But… I can try to compromise.”

Percival’s lips twist in an unamused grimace, as the hand still lingering on Siegfried’s face traces marred skin.

(He’s so real, so warm, and his rough version of beauty has been further chiseled by the years.)

“Siegfried,” his thumb ghosts over chapped lips, slowly, and he leans a little too close for comfort, “you’re hopeless.”

“That I am”, he answers, and _ of course _ he doesn’t blush, because Siegfried is Siegfried. “You’re old as well, won’t you take responsibility?”

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't posted fic since my homestuck days LMAO. siegpercy is wrecking me and i need their fic tag to be longer. finger guns
> 
> pls come yell at me on twitter @ eiwtbot or @ seresianprince i need more granblue fwends


End file.
